


Gumption

by lestrahdle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Bisexual Greg Lestrade, Bisexual John, Bisexual John Watson, Drunk Sex, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, One Night Stands, Slow Burn, The Holiday, the holiday (movie)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-12-30 01:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12098061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lestrahdle/pseuds/lestrahdle
Summary: John decides to leave Long Island to swap homes with a stranger for the holidays after watching Mary get engaged to another man. After unforeseen work troubles, Mycroft is forced out of London for a few weeks to let the chaos die down. Despite being two strangers 3000 miles apart, they find themselves confronted with the same scary situation: a new romance.(Plot based on The Holiday.)





	1. Maestro

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off the movie The Holiday with (fuck off) Jude Law, Jack Black, Kate Winslet, and Cameron Diaz. 
> 
> Here's my playlist: http://spoti.fi/2x4iYM2

John sighed adjusting his tie in his reflection. He swallowed audibly, grateful for private bathrooms. It was the company Christmas party, lots of socializing, and all John wanted to do was hide in his office to make another deadline. He had no holiday plans, probably just see his friend Greg and wait for the celebrations to be over. He hadn’t talked to Harry in a while and although it sounded nice on paper, a familial reconciliation around the holidays was not the best option. 

He gritted his teeth, feeling his face flush. Turning on the taps, he leaned forward to splash some cold water on his flushed cheeks. His whole night he had been actively avoiding people asking about his holiday plans. It just sounded depressing to hear he was doing nothing while Irene in Human Resources said she was going on a Carribbean Cruise with her new wife. 

He was also trying to avoid Mary Morstan, the bane of his existence as of late. On again off again, keeper of his sanity, Mary was one of the editors at _The New York Times_ and as soon as they met John was gone, lost in a world revolving solely around the petite blonde. 

Mary didn’t want to be exclusive. It was the work. It was the job. She was technically on a higher pay grade than him, so it makes sense! Employees can’t date their supervisors. John wasn’t necessarily new to the idea of keeping a relationship casual or private. They would be public one day. Maybe.

Friends will tell you that Mary would never be good for anyone, especially John. She cheated. Twice. But it wasn’t her fault! The first was just once and the second time was… well they were on a break? At least that was conveyed to John after the fact. 

This last time John was trying to stay strong. Three strikes and you’re out. That’s what John was doing. No more Mary. He was keeping his distance, ignoring her texts, keeping things professional around the office, and hoping the confrontation would never arise. 

He was working on applying to go back to school. Med school to be specific. That was his main goal from university, but he went from one pay-off to another. First the army to cover school, where he was stationed in Afghanistan for a few years until his shoulder injury got him invalided. Then a one-off major story from the fucking _New York Times_ , a one-off job turned into a trap. He’d save enough paychecks and open the medical books again… At some point.

Hand hovering over the door knob he hesitated, going over the game plan in his head: take a sharp right, veer left, through the office door and close shut behind. He could make it to his office with no one seeing him. Breathe and — _go._

“John!” a hand clasped around his shoulder before he got two steps around the first corner. “Not working yourself to death on Christmas, are you?” Greg’s cheery grin almost looked painful in the way it split his cheeks. 

“I, um, well,” John muttered, realizing he didn’t come up with an excuse gameplay back there. _Damn._

“Come on,” Greg wrapped his arms around his shoulder, steering him in the opposite direction of his office and further into the party. He ducked his head next to John’s so he could whisper in his ear, “I’ll be right by your side. She won’t come near you.” 

John cleared his throat, grabbing the glass from Greg’s hand and finishing it off himself. At first startled, Greg knocked his head back and laughed. John appreciated Greg’s observational skills; he had gotten him out of many awkward situations ‘round the office. 

“Thought we lost you there, Watson,” Mike’s grin was innocent, but John grimaced. Why was everyone so damn happy? 

Normally John would be happy to have his two best friends there to rescue him. He would feel grateful, even. An introvert at heart, parties were never a first choice so to have these two extroverts there to act as a buffer always comforted him. Tonight, John was in the mood for the biggest pity party of his life. All he wanted to do was go home, draw a bath, have a beer, and wallow. 

“Found this one headed back to work. Can you believe that?” Greg bellowed, slapping John on the back and taking his now empty glass to place on a nearby desk. 

“Can’t be working at the Christmas party,” Mike ducked his head with a knowing gaze. “You okay, John?” 

John audibly swallowed, nodding stiffly and looking out into the party. Greg patted his pack again and headed toward the bar, throwing Mike a _help the poor bastard_ look. John winced. 

“Haven’t seen much of her tonight, John,” Mike began, stepping around him so he was at least sheltered from the main brunt of the party. 

“I don’t know who you are talking about,” John mustered, finally making eye contact with his friend. Mike smiled sadly and nodded once in understanding. That was it for Mary talk tonight. Good. 

“Offer is still on the table for you to join me this Christmas,” Mike switched topics, smiling warmly. 

“Ah, thanks,” John replied, shifting his weight back and forth on each foot. “Don’t really want to crash the in-law visit, but have fun in Portland.”

“Jeez, Johnny,” Mike chuckled. “You’ve met Jane’s family dozens of times. They like you more than me, I guarantee it.” 

“Maybe it’s good I don’t join you then,” John said with a smirk and Mike laughed. 

“What did I miss?” Greg asked, coming back with a drink for himself and John, who greedily snatched it away. Bougie champagne and white wine were the only things at the open bar this evening - the entire selection ten times more expensive than what’s in John’s bank account. John took a sip, lips puckering at the sweetness of the riesling. 

“Just Watson being a charming smart ass,” Mike said with his most dramatic eye roll. John smiled, the weight from his chest lifting a bit. Okay, he could do this. He could go through the motions. He could hide in this corner of the party and sneak out with Greg and Mike at the end of the night. 

Or not.

“John is charming, isn’t he?” a soft voice came from behind him and John’s eyes widened, looking back and forth between his two friends for a way out of this. They froze. He didn’t blame them, she does that to people. 

John slowly turned around, training his eyes to look directly into her eyes as he greeted her, “Mary.” 

“That’s all I get? C’mon, Johnny, ’tis the season!” Mary giggled, opening her arms for a hug. 

John’s heart hammered against his chest, mind racing for a way out, but no such luck. He returned the hug quickly, meaning to step back, but her arms latched around his back, not letting go. He hated when she lingered. As she pulled away she smiled brightly and John felt dizzy, his head swimming. He couldn’t help smiling lazily back, completely enamored. 

“You don’t mind if I steal him away for a few seconds, boys?” Mary asked, glancing over John’s shoulder at Greg and Mike, who both muttered something polite and dismissive. 

Before he knew it, John was being dragged to his own office, her hand tugging him along until they got to the place he had planned to be a sanctuary for the evening. She glanced around quickly before closing the door behind her. 

“Mary, I— hmph!” John was crowded up against the door, Mary’s lips on his, then trailing down his neck. “Mary, stop—”

“You didn’t answer my texts,” she whined, tongue laving over the sensitive spots of his pulse point. “I thought you were mad at me.” 

“Mad at you—“ John began, trying to keep his brain fog-free. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back, keeping a few inched between them. “Not tonight, please.” 

“So you _are_ mad at me,” Mary huffed, stepping back and clearing a space on John’s desk before hopping up. Her pencil skirt rode high on her thighs as she reached out for John’s hand. He, regrettably, took it, their fingers locking together and she tugged. John stumbled forward into the space between her legs. “I said I was sorry.” 

“Mary—” John warned, but his tone was failing him. He wanted this. _God,_ he wanted this, he really did, but all the red flags were there. His heart was shattered into a million pieces already and yet, here he was. Still hopelessly in love with Mary Morstan.

Her hands ran up his chest, fingertips smoothing over the lapels of his jacket. She dipped her head, looking up from beneath her lashes. “Johnny,” she began with her signature pout. 

“I got you something,” John blurted out, wincing at how loud it sounded. Mary blinked, confused as John stepped back, opening up his side desk drawer to take out her present, carefully wrapped in crimson paper and donned with a gold bow. 

He originally got her this present, not quite sure if they were going to exchange, but in case they did. He hid it in his office for weeks, hoping he wouldn’t have to give her the horribly sentimental book they gushed over on their first date. Seeing her with it made his stomach churn. What would she think? What would she say? How pathetic he was?

“Oh, Johnny!” Mary gasped, reaching out for it and smiling broadly. “What is it?” 

“Well, go on,” he said, nodding toward her and taking advantage of the distraction to put more space between them. Mary wouldn’t allow the distance, reaching out to grab his hand and tug him back so his hip was pressed against her leg. 

She carefully unwrapped the present, keeping the paper in tact. Upon seeing the title, she found his hand once more, squeezing gently. “ _Oh_ ,” she murmured, sniffling. 

“It’s a, uh, first edition,” John muttered, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “It’s a bit dorky, I guess, I—“

“No,” Mary interrupted, looking up at John with a watery smile. “It’s amazing, John. _You_ are amazing.”

He didn’t know what to say, not expecting tears - were those real this time or another manipulative jab? 

“I—I’m sorry,” he said dumbly and Mary laughed.

“You have nothing to apologize for. I should be apologizing,” she said and then shifted, a little uncomfortable. “I, um, your present is in the post. Coming from London.” 

Of course it was. 

“It’s fine,” John said, stepping back. 

“No, really, it is!” Mary said, hopping off the desk and going to his side. She found his hand and gave it another quick squeeze. She stared at him for a bit and when he didn’t meet her gaze, she bounced up to kiss his cheek. “Mind if I leave this here? I’ll come grab it at the end of the night.” 

“Yeah, sure,” John muttered, training his eyes to follow the grain of the hardwood floor. If he looked at her, he was done for. 

“Merry Christmas, John,” Mary whispered, gently wrapping her arms around him from behind and giving a gentle squeeze. 

“Merry Christmas, Mary,” John replied, his voice shaking only a little. He tried to keep each syllable trained and measured, but he still sounded like a moron. 

“I have to go,” she moved toward the door. “Don’t leave tonight without saying goodbye, all right?” 

John didn't trust his voice, but nodded and that seemed to be enough for her. She opened the door, closing it quickly behind her. He stared blankly at the wall for a second, trying to collect his thoughts that were currently whirring around in his head like a steam engine. Why was he so damn weak? Mary could just walk into a room and John would be wrapped around her finger. She would tell him to jump and he would be too flustered to ask how high so he would jump every and any height he could manage. 

She treated him like shit. Honestly, trash. In their many years of - whatever they were, Mary never bought him a gift. Christmas, birthdays, even fucking Labor Day John never received anything. Sure, it wasn't about the money, John could care less about that. It was the sentiment, but it would always turn around to the gifts being lost in the mail or something came up or  _we were on a break, Johnny, you knew that!_

What the hell is a "break" anyway? Ugh, never mind. 

Unsure of how much time passed, he counted the normal ten-Mississippi’s and then emerged from his office. Before he could finish his exhale, Mike and Greg were on him, each grabbing a should of his and pushing him toward the exit.

“It’s fine,” John said, putting one hand up to stop the inevitable waves of questioning. “ _I’m_ fine.”

“I don’t think you will be,” Mike grunted and Greg kicked his shin. John looked up, his eyes wide. 

_What?_

“I wouldn’t go over there,” Greg said with a not-so-subtle cough, but John was already trying to make his way through their half-hearted barricade into the party because maybe they wanted him to see this. Maybe they knew even though it would hurt, John _needed_ to see this. And he did.

There, on the raised platform at the front of the room, surrounded by the hundred of employees at the annual holiday party, was NYT Editor in Chief Gabriel Who-Fucking-Cares holding up the left hand of his new fiance: Mary Morstan. 

John couldn’t breathe, his chest collapsing, only to expand again to fit a greater weight inside. He was gasping, staggering, and yet on the outside he was stoic, unmoving. He couldn’t see anything, but her eyes locking on his from across the room. 

She knew! She knew and she tried to hook up with him in his office. Before announcing her engagement. To the whole company. In front of him. What. the. fucking. fuck. 

He didn’t know how he made it out of that room - probably Greg and Mike - how he made it on the Subway and LIRR back to his home, back to his bed. He was numb, the only thing keeping him aware of his movement was his accelerated breath and the occasional tingling in his limbs. 

He didn’t remember telling Mike and Greg to leave, but they did. For their own good, he supposed. He didn’t remember showering or feeding himself, but he was hygienic and full, so that must have happened. He didn’t know why he wasn’t getting any phone calls, but realized he had let his phone die and never bothered to grab the charger. 

The weekend was silent in the Watson household. The only sounds were his sock-clad feet pattering around the hardwood and linoleum, his occasional heavier inhale or exhale, and the neighbor’s dog barking. He was numb. Completely.

Monday morning he called in sick, originally planning to work through Christmas. He felt a new refreshed energy about him. Some may call it denial, he would tell them to fuck off. 

Mike was off to Portland, Greg was busy with his family, and John was going to have another lonely Long Island Christmas. 

Nope, not this year. Wasn’t everyone always telling him he deserved a break? Well, fine! He was going to take it.

He just didn’t want to dip into his funds for med school. Better try and only dip his toes into the spontaneity pool this time around. 

John sat down at his computer and began the search for “house swaps.”

—

“You did _what?!_ ” Mycroft wailed, snatching his laptop from Anthea’s grasp and pacing around his home office with it as his eyes furiously scanned the screen. 

“Oh come off it! They have mandated you take a break,” Anthea snapped back, crossing her arms over her chest and just watching him move about the room. 

According to his brother, Mycroft _was_ the British government. Recently said government mandated immediate leave for him after a raid and rescue of two British ambassadors went wrong in Tbilisi that left all but one dead, or so said the police report. It wasn’t his fault that AGRA’s efforts went south. 

It was standard procedure to use consulting assassin organizations. This was not out of the ordinary. However, they needed a scapegoat and his lucky name was pulled from the hat. 

And so, after the fact, there had been several threats to Mycroft’s life. Normally death threats didn’t phase the man, but they seemed to shake his superiors enough to force him away for a while with a not-so-professional mandate. Mycroft thought this meant a nice quiet holiday with his family in the country, but his parents were off in Wales - god knows why - and well, he wasn’t going to spend it with his brother. 

Still, he would at least be able to stay at his home, right? There was extra security and it’s not like any of those threats were serious. Honestly.

But when Anthea told him she was sending him off to America to swap homes with an ex-army captain, he was furious.

“It was implied that you were to leave the country, Mycroft,” she said with a heavy sigh, hopping up to sit on his desk to wait out his childish outburst. It would pass, it always did. 

Mycroft couldn’t argue with her either. He knew she was right. They did mean for him to leave the country. If not for his safety, for the security of his employment. He had a lot of eyes watching him now. 

“It’s _Long Island_ , Anthea,” Mycroft spat with disgust. “Didn’t they name a cocktail after them?” 

“It is technically New York,” Anthea corrected patiently. Always so patient. “Yeah, they did, but they name cocktails after a lot of things. Manhattan, sex on the beach…”

“How very astute of you,” he groaned and she could almost see the permanent indentation of his pace traffic on the carpet. “Nothing good can come from aplace whose alcohol equivalent is synonymous with a sorority girl spring break or a sad hen do.” 

Anthea couldn’t help herself, she snorted, then quickly tried to hide her smile. “Would you just try? He’s an army man, already had a background scan. Nothing there. He’s potentially the most normal one on there.”

“Why are you going through a website like this anyway?” Mycroft grumbled in a huff, sitting down at his desk and placing the laptop next to Anthea so they could both look at the screen. “Home exchange - really? Why wouldn’t I just get a hotel?” 

Anthea deadpanned, no longer finding the banter amusing. “International crime circuit,” she reminded nudging his arm on the chair with her shin. “Surely you don’t need to be reminded of the danger there. It was mentioned you keep a low profile and all that.” 

Ah so Long Island was a compromise. Gets Mycroft close to another major city to sate his need to work, but far enough away that no one would be in any immediate danger. The area was populated enough, but easier to evacuate than a major city if the need arose.

There was no way out of this. Either this was an inevitable demise of his career or these threats were going to put a different sort of permanence on his life. 

“Will the man be safe here?” his tone defeated. He tried to ignore Anthea’s grin as she hopped of his desk and stood behind him, gripping his shoulders to give them a gentle squeeze. She pushed his chair in further to his desk. 

“Is that sentiment I hear?” Anthea teased, but she let off it at Mycroft’s grunt. “He will be in no danger, I assure you.” 

Ah, so they have already tipped off the contacts that Mycroft is leaving. Those interested in Mycroft’s wellbeing or lack thereof know he is to leave for America shortly and an innocent man will be staying at his flat. For anyone else, the civilian would be used as a pawn - threaten the safety of an innocent to get what they needed from their real target. For Mycroft, however, that tactic wouldn’t work, evident in the case that got him in this mess. 

“If you can’t work here, Manhattan is right in your reach,” Anthea encouraged and Mycroft cringed at the notion that he needed the coddling. He put up a hand, urging her to stop and she did. She placed a file on top of the keyboard, presumably filled with content on the future tenant of his home. Ugh. 

He flipped it open with petulance, glancing at the photo before getting to the real substance. John Watson, ex-army captain, invalided home from Afghanistan. Currently working at the New York Times - respectable - as a writer - _blegh!_

Mycroft blinked a few times, various summative bits coming into focus. His eyes scanned lower at family relations - single, parents deceased, twin sister estranged. Friends, it seemed, were all Mr. Watson had. He had a curious interest in medical school, his major in university, but not actualized after the army. Pity. His therapist thinks he has PTSD - psychosomatic limp. Well, that’s enough for now.

He squinted back at the screen, hearing Anthea’s footsteps head toward the door, but she didn’t leave the room, yet. She was watching. Of course she was. Clever girl.

Mycroft stretched his fingers over the keyboard with hesitation. There was really only one question he needed to know. 

_Tell me about your neighborhood._

(…)

(…)

(…)

Christ, add technology inept to his file. 

_What about it?_

Mycroft hummed, tilting his head. He could deal with the vagueness or miscommunication. He wasn’t explicitly clear and John is _American_ after all. 

Mycroft began typing out various questions, trying to find the right wording. 

_Nosey neighbors?_ No, too harsh. 

_Do you get a lot of visitors?_ No, too I’m-going-to-rob-you-blind.

Finally he settled on: _Close community?_

First there was nothing. No typing, no read message, just hesitation. He scanned further up the conversation. Anthea had done well in her introductions, personable as she was. Perhaps he was being too cold, too direct. Perhaps John would lie to make his home seem more idyllic to the “normal” renter. Perhaps— 

(…) _pretty private tbh_

Mycroft grinned. _Excellent. Tomorrow too soon?_


	2. Anything Can Happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft opened the door and the man blinked wide before furrowing his brow in confusion.
> 
> “You’re not John,” he said dumbly. He swayed a bit and leaned against the door frame, smile turning into a sideways grin. “Or if you are, I am way drunker than I realized. Sorry I wasn’t expecting to see,” he paused, glancing Mycroft up and down, “you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the nice comments! Remember: tea is code. ;)
> 
> TW: If you haven't seen The Holiday, Mycroft and Greg are the Cameron/Jude part of this relationship. There is some questionable consent in that storyline (i.e. alcohol consumption, etc.) Just a warning

John still felt like a little boy when he went to airports. The order and seamless routine of intake of passengers, landing of planes, shipment of baggage - everything had it’s place. It was always amazing to him how all of this chaos could function.  

JFK was nice, it was the New York attitude that was something he could do without, everyone going about their day as if their journey and destination was the only one scheduled for that day. He always kept his head down, popped in his earbuds, and went through the motions, only interacting with people when it was absolutely necessary. 

He grabbed a latte and sat at the gate, turning his phone over in his palm. He hadn’t mentioned his trip to anyone, not even Greg, and he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to deal with the pity or concern of his spontaneous trip. He just wanted to enjoy himself and have a little bit of solitude. It was almost silly how John just wanted to control this little bit of adventure he could have, this bit of happiness that wasn’t guaranteed. 

Perhaps he should tell someone though. His friends were worriers - always had been. He quickly called Greg as it was the first contact to pop up in his texts. It rang and rang, but no answer. He was off the hook then. He tried, right? He pocketed his phone and boarded his flight. 

The flight was long, but he slept through most of it. His boyish awe of airports reignited at Heathrow. He didn’t necessarily know how to get to Mycroft’s flat from the airport, but he wasn’t too worried. He always had a buzz of travel anxiety, but not this time and he wasn’t complaining. 

After the long travel through customs, he made his way to the Tube. Luckily it was way easier to understand than the NY Subway, the jet lag already slowing him down. When he got to the address typed into the notes app on his phone, he checked and double-checked again and again. 

This can’t be right. It’s—incredible. 

Mycroft hadn’t sent him photos, just mentioned that his home was “a bit more lavish” than John’s, but that was certainly an understatement. The entrance was floor to ceiling marble, a large desk for guests to check-in. There were plush leather sofas set up in front of an ornate, frankly ostentatious fireplace. John’s eyes glazed over, blinking back to reality. He needed sleep. 

A doorman greeted him as he entered, taking John’s luggage the short trip from the front door to the elevator. He knew of John’s arrival, greeted him by name, and even hit the button on the elevator for the appropriate floor to Mycroft’s apartment. He started to have guilt at how different of an experience Mycroft must be having making his way from JFK or Newark to his Long Island home.

The elevator dinged and opened to reveal a private hallway - Mycroft’s apartment was the only one accessible from this floor. Once he unlocked the door, he dropped his luggage and had to catch himself from falling back. John never really had money. Growing up and now into his adulthood, he never really had much. With his job at _The Times_ , it was a bit easier to swing more expensive purchases, but they were never luxury items, always essentials - a new computer, a new mattress, etc. 

So it wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to be a bit flabbergasted by the expansive luxury of his borrowed home for the next two weeks.

The flat began with a large living space, the back wall covered in bookcases, framing a glass door out onto a balcony. A top the beautiful hardwood flooring was a plush rug cushioning and framing the sitting area. Still in the open floor plan, but divided by pillars was the formal dining room, complete with chandelier and linen. Alongside this was a half-wall divide and the study, lined with more bookshelves and a large desk, also stacked with papers. On the opposite end of the open floorpan was the kitchen, marble countertops, marble island, marble flooring. The cabinets were a light gray. 

Although the color scheme was white and gray, the space felt warm, not at all cold like it’s matching marble counterpart. The textures of the furniture and fixings were all particularly chosen with that in mind, it seemed. 

Next to the kitchen was the bathroom - also completely marble - and a door leading to the bedroom. The bed was the largest he had ever seen, sitting in the center of the room with a plush down comforter and cozier knit blankets for contrast. A small arm chair was in the corner of the room next to the dresser, which led back to a larger walk-in closet and a separate ensuite. What really stood out was the floor to ceiling windows, illuminating the neutral palette to have a warm afternoon glow about it. It was absolutely breathtaking. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat and cautiously sat down on the bed, toeing off his shoes and taking off his jacket to toss on the floor. He leaned back into the mattress, sinking into the down feathers and hummed in content. He could get used to this. He leaned over to the end table beside the bed, noticing a button placed along the outer edge. Curiosity got the better of him and he pressed it only to have blackout curtains come down from the ceiling, blocking all light from entering the room. 

Yes, he could definitely get used to this. 

After waking up from his nap, John padded into the kitchen, putting on the kettle to make a cup of tea. He yawned, rubbing the back of his neck and stretching to one side. He opened up a few cabinets before finding that there were no mismatched mugs, only teacups. 

As he started to pour the water into his cup, he jumped at a loud buzz at the front door, bringing the kettle over to follow the noise. Must be the elevator to allow someone up to this floor. The flashing light at the panel by the door confirmed that and John stepped back, hoping the buzz would go away. It didn’t just buzzed again and again, whoever it was they were relentless. 

John quickly hit the touchscreen panel and the buzzing stopped, allowing whoever it was to come to his floor. All right, he’ll just explain the situation and they’ll be on their way. He jumped again, holding back at yelp at the loud bang on the front door - it almost sounded like someone body slammed it. He quickly put the kettle back, body tensing at the unexpected noise. 

“If you don’t answer this door, so help me, Mycroft,” the deep voice bellowed, followed by three sharp, but rhythmic knocks. “Making me wait downstairs like the commonwealth,” he grumbled. “Open up, you great big prat!” 

John jumped, tiptoeing to the door to peer through the peep hole, holding his breath to keep his approach unnoticed. A wide gray-green gaze stared back, a dark mop of curls on a face that was more cheekbones than anything else. He started to hear the jingle of keys and the rattling of the doorknob. John opened the door and the man’s face crinkled in confusion before immediately smoothing over. 

“If you’re a burglar, you’re daft to be opening the door,” he said with a bored sigh, straightening up from his lean against the wall. “Assassin then? No, unarmed. Know your way around a gun, though - was it Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

“Afghanistan,” he answered automatically, wincing at his easy confession. Why was he talking to this stranger? “I’m sorry, who are—“

“It’s psychosomatic,” the man continued, matter-of-factly. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Your limp,” he clarified. “You came to the door with a limp, but you’re standing with your weight evenly spread,” he motioned toward John’s stance, feet evenly spread apart, “like you’ve forgotten about it. It’s partially if not completely psychosomatic.” 

“Who are you? How did you know about the—”

“American! Interesting,” the man continued, smiling as he continued to ramble on. “My brother hates Americans, thinks they are imbeciles. Why would a former American army captain with a psychosomatic limp and an estranged twin be in my brother’s flat right before the holidays?” 

_Brother_. Ah! 

“Your brother, oh! John, John Watson,” he said, holding out his hand. The man took it, giving a solid shake. “

“Sherlock Holmes,” he replied automatically, eyes still narrowing and John felt exposed. 

“That was all really amazing, but how did you know all of that?” John asked. 

“I observed,” Sherlock replied simply, as if that explained everything. John waited for further explanation, but none came. John cleared his throat awkwardly as he took hint from Sherlock’s inquisitive gaze. 

“Uh, right. Your brother didn’t tell you, then?” John asked, now considering that Mycroft and him had a bit more in common. Sherlock continued to stare, just blinking with wide eyes and waiting for an explanation. “Mycroft is in New York. I’m staying here for a few weeks while he’s away and—”

“Mycroft never takes a holiday,” Sherlock said, but it seemed to be rhetorical. He continued to stare and John started to squirm at the intensity of the man’s gaze. 

“You said you observed?” John tried to change the subject, attempting to learn a little bit more about the Holmes’s. 

“Yes, I don’t like repeating myself.” Although over six foot, Sherlock seemed to have the posture and prowess of a teenager. 

“How?” 

“I think you mean ‘what’ - _what_ did I observe not _how_ ,” Sherlock corrected with a smirk and a wink. John swallowed back embarrassment and just nodded to prompt the man to explain. “Your haircut and posture says military. Your accent American. Where would an army man from America be in the last five years - Afghanistan or Iraq, hard to tell that by just observation.”

“Amazing,” John said genuinely, trying to keep his jaw closed.

“Curious,” Sherlock mused, his smirk falling away and his eyes widening. “That’s not what people normally say.” 

“What do people normally say?” 

“Piss off,” Sherlock’s grin returned, but it was short lived at a commotion behind him. John opened the door wider to get a good look at the elevator that burst open with a tall blonde man bounding through the door, his posture wrong for his graceful stride. He looked intoxicated. 

“Oh, good The Queen not here then?” the man said with a sly grin, slipping next to Sherlock and wrapping an arm around his waist. He was dressed in tight black pants, a large jacket he was almost swimming in. His clothes were extremely wrinkled as if he picked them up from the floor this morning after rolling all over them. He leaned over to kiss Sherlock’s cheek and then glanced at John before turning his whole body away to ignore his presence. _Alright then…_

“Mycroft is on holiday in New York,” Sherlock told the man, his eyes not leaving John. 

“Well c’mon, then! Let’s go,” the man said sharply, stepping back to tug at Sherlock’s arm and head back toward the elevator. 

“I’ll meet you at the opera house,” Sherlock turned to face the man, tugging him back just enough to turn over his hand and kiss his palm. The man looked a bit put-out, but smiled and was off to the elevator again. 

“Don’t be too long,” he said as the doors shut and they were left alone in the hall again. 

“Hm, I play the violin at the Royal Opera House,” Sherlock explained, glancing back at the elevator as if the doors were going to open again. “Victor Trevor is my partner,” he looked back at John with a curt smile. 

“Ah, does he play the violin as well?” John asked, wondering why Sherlock’s tone was awkward. They seemed fairly happy, although John didn't necessarily think of himself as a relationship expert. 

“Dancer,” Sherlock amended and they dipped back into their uncomfortable silence at least for John as it seemed quite comfortable for Sherlock. "You're a writer."

" _New York Times_ , yeah," John said with a smile and a nod. 

"You hate it," Sherlock replied bluntly.

"I don't- I mean, _hate_ is a strong word," John said with a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. Sherlock continued to stare him down, 

"Not strong enough it seems," Sherlock countered with a knowing smile. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, most people hate their jobs." 

"Do you hate yours?" John said, getting a bit defensive of being read so easily by a stranger. 

Sherlock hummed a noncommittal response, continuing to stare with such force that John squirmed in the doorway. Was he really that obvious to people? 

“I’m sorry, would you like to come in or—” John began, feeling a bit silly that he hadn’t already offered Sherlock to come inside his own brother’s apartment. 

“No, no, I best be off,” Sherlock waved a hand around. “You said you would be here a few weeks?”

“Uh, until just before New Year’s,” John said with a nod. He watched Sherlock head toward the elevator, hitting the call button. 

“Pity,” Sherlock mused as the elevator door bell chimed. “I thought I could start the New Year off without my brother,” he smiled and winked. “Pleasure to meet you, John Watson.”

“Ah, nice to meet you, too,” John replied, his voice quivering. God, why was he so intimidated by this man? 

“I’m sure I’ll see you again quite soon,” Sherlock called, looking down to check his phone. 

With a final smile, the elevator doors closed and John was left standing in the doorway of his loaned apartment, staring dumbly at the elevator doors thinking _what the fuck just happened?_

—

This was utterly ridiculous. Mycroft arrived at JFK, made the crude trip to Long Island, arrived at the Watson residence, hooked up to WiFi, and bought his plane ticket to France, where he would be off to the Holmes vacation spot. There was no way he was staying in America for the holiday. He didn’t care if he had to stop working, but he didn’t have to be banished from Europe like he was a convict of treason. 

The earliest flight he could get out of there was midnight tomorrow. Fine. He could do that. It would be miserable, but he would make it somewhat bearable. 

He moved his luggage to the living room right by the entryway, only unpacking a change of clothes and toiletries. He fished out his laptop and power cable, deciding to be productive in the hours he had left in New York. He would attempt to stay awake, sleep on the flight, and be ready to spend the day he arrived lounging in the small Holmes vineyard along the French countryside the day after next. 

Mycroft set up his laptop in the front room lined with windows that received sun exposure in the afternoon. That would keep him awake for a while. It was a cozy home, quaint. Mycroft was not one for material things, despite his own home - one he had paid an interior designer to accommodate. A home could be modest in decor and still extremely comfortable and beautiful. 

John’s home was a small Cape Cod style cottage with one and a half floors - a small step down into the living room. When you walked up through the porch and through the front door, you were met by a narrow foyer that led back to the kitchen, which was modestly sized with a breakfast nook and window overlooking the well-kept garden. 

To the right of the entrance was a cozy living room, equipped with a large entertainment cabinet filled to the brim wth movies and a seven year old not-so-flat screen. A large fireplace was again the farthest wall and looked well used to accommodate the dated heating system and faulty radiators. 

To the left in the foyer was access to the bedroom-converted-study - where Mycroft was currently sitting. The back wall was lined with bookcases, all secondhand, but also filled to capacity with medical journals, mystery novels, and biographies of famous historical figures. Bit of a history buff then - not surprising.

As Mycroft finished up his emails, he felt a shiver down his spine. He blinked away from the screen only to find that his laptop was the only thing illuminating the room. How long had he been here? Well that was a successful waste of time. He pinched the bridge of his nose, glancing to his mobile. 

_10 messages from Anthea_

He swiped, already knowing what this was about and he stopped reading about halfway down. 

_Enjoy your time off._

_You will_ not _be getting on that flight, Mycroft Holmes._

_Don’t think I’m joking about this._

_I will have TSA and customs pull your arse back into the states if you so much as think to_ _—_

“Ha, we’ll see about that,” Mycroft said aloud with a bitter chuckle. 

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face and getting up to draw the curtains. He stretched a bit to either side, flipping on the light in the hall to make his way to the kitchen. The man had to have a cup of tea around here somewhere. He dug through the cabinets finding a mug and surprisingly some halfway decent tea and a loose leaf strainer. He even found a proper kettle, but opted for the electric equivalent. 

As he was filling up the kettle with water from the tap, a loud bang at the front door caught his attention. At first he assumed it was a neighborhood kid attempting a joke - it was a small suburb, not much to do for young ones. He put the kettle back on the stand, flipping the switch to start the boil, but another bang was heard at the front door. 

He glanced at the clock on the oven and it read 12:38am. Bit late - or early for visitors. Mycroft silently padded to the doorway that led into the foyer. 

“John, open up,” a gruff voice called from the other side of the door. “I’ve been calling your cell and you haven’t picked up. Mike and I are here for you, y’know.” 

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, why would this “friend” of John’s be on his doorstep past midnight? Before he had a chance to make his own observations, the visitor explained. 

“I see your light on, I know you’re up,” the man called in sing-song - drunk, then. Mycroft silently cursed himself for leaving the hall light on - of course an ex-army doctor wouldn’t be one for slipping up on nighttime routine. 

At the pause in conversation through the door, Mycroft did his best to walk toward the voice, avoiding the creaking old floorboards. He peered through the peephole, catching sight of his guest. 

A man of rather muscular build, just short of six foot, donned a leather jacket with a maroon scarf bundled tight against his neck. He brought his gloved hands to his mouth to blow some warmth to them in the crisp New York chill. His salt-and-pepper hair was swept back, his tanned skin still showing pink undertones - blush from the cold walk he must have had and probably the alcohol in his system. 

The man was gorgeous. Honestly, Mycroft didn’t remember the last time he had been with anyone and he recognized the longer this went on, the harder it was for him to ignore his more mundane human urges. He had never really fallen in love, but had experience throughout his life in the “dating scene.” Normally he would find a man, spend a few evenings with him, and blame work for their eventual split. 

Mycroft never felt emotional or intellectual attraction before, merely just physical so his interest in this visitor was not out of the ordinary. It is not that he longed for anything more, he had accepted long ago that he probably would never find anything longterm. If he eventually had to settle down for appearance’s sake he was sure he would find an arrangement that worked for the both of them, but until then— 

The man outside the door groaned, pacing back and forth and Mycroft quickly stepped back. 

“C’mon, John, I really need to take a piss and if you don’t answer your door I’ll have to pee on your porch.”

Okay, that was enough. 

Mycroft opened the door and the man blinked wide before furrowing his brow in confusion. 

“You’re not John,” he said dumbly. He swayed a bit and leaned against the door frame, smile turning into a sideways grin. “Or if you are, I am _way_ drunker than I realized. Sorry I wasn’t expecting to see,” he paused, glancing Mycroft up and down, “you.”

Mycroft felt his face heat at the obvious gesture and he cleared his throat, hoping his blush wasn’t too obvious. Christ was he a teenager again? “Well I wasn’t expecting you either,” he replied curtly, tilting his head as if waiting for an introduction.

The man shifted his weight and winced an apology. “Sorry do you mind if I use—” he motioned inside. 

“Oh, sure,” Mycroft blinked, stepping back and holding the door open for the man to enter. 

The visitor must know the place fairly well as he kicked off his wet boots and went straight back through the kitchen to the restroom. Before he made it there, he spun around, holding out his hand for Mycroft to shake. 

“I’m Greg, John’s friend - co-worker - life coach,” he mused with that same lopsided grin. “Unofficial life coach, but one all the same.”

“Mycroft,” he replied with a brisk shake as they made their way into the kitchen. “I’m staying here.” _For a day_. Also, why was he telling this stranger? 

“Mycroft, hm? Interesting name,” Greg replied as the door clicked shut. Despite getting that one comment a lot in his life, the man sounded genuine with his reply, not sarcastic at all. Huh. 

Mycroft attempted to continue making his tea, trying not to stare at the door that closed behind him. He searched through a few drawers finding a spoon and sorting the tea into the strainer as the kettle clicked off. He began to pour into the mug. 

“So where is John?” Greg called from inside the other room, the sound of the faucet running. 

“He didn’t tell you?” Mycroft replied, his voice a bit shaky with nerves. Something about this man made Mycroft’s nerves ignite. He was normally quite confident in his previous relationships, if you could call them that. He was always at ease talking with men he was physically attracted to, but Greg was different. 

Greg emerged from the bathroom with a shrug. “He could have,” he said, stepping forward only to falter and step quickly to the kitchen counter to learn against it for support. He looked up at Mycroft, smiling sheepishly, “but uh, I’ve been at the uh- I’m pretty uh- not in my best-” he stuttered motioning back toward where he came in.

“He’s in London,” Mycroft interrupted, opening a cabinet to grab a glass and filling it with filtered water from the fridge.

“That’s not possible,” Greg straightened his posture a bit, shaking his head. “John never goes anywhere.” 

Mycroft laughed, stepping forward to hand Greg the glass as he was taking off his scarf. “Ah, we have that in common then,” Mycroft said, stepping back to fetch his cup of tea. “He listed his home on a home-exchange website, we swapped homes for the holiday, about two weeks or so.”

Greg took a large gulp of water and squinted in confusion. “People actually do that?”  

“Apparently,” Mycroft smiled at hearing the same thought he had. Ridiculous notion, swapping homes with a stranger. 

Greg was subconsciously walking forward, as if being closer in proximity to Mycroft would somehow provide more clarity to the situation. When he stopped, he leaned against the counter once more, but now there were only five inches or so between them. 

“Y’know John called me, but I was out with the— well, I feel pretty shitty now,” Greg grumbled with a sad smile. He stumbled forward and Mycroft quickly put down his cup, arms out to steady him. “Do you mind if I sit? I feel like I might bump into you.”

“Please,” Mycroft motioned toward the hall back to the living room and Greg walked, surprisingly well, out to the sofa. Once there, he collapsed loose-limbed and fidgety. He put his scarf next to him, rubbing the back of his neck. Mycroft watched cautiously from the doorway. 

As Greg swayed a bit to the right, Mycroft stepped in clearing his throat. “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” Greg snapped back, sitting upright, but holding his hands out on either side as if to anchor him. “Look, I’m sorry about barging in like this,” he said with another sideways grin. “I know it may not look like it, but I am John’s more mature friend, _but_ on occasion I may step out to the bar around the corner - normally with him, but - he lets me stay here so I don’t drive home,” he began to have a lisp as he rambled and Mycroft hid his blush behind his cup of tea. 

“I know it sounds pretty pathetic, but it’s sort of become tradition as of late—” Greg stared off for a second before blinking back, smiling as if seeing Mycroft for the first time. “So how’s it going so far? You liking New York?” 

Mycroft stepped into the room a bit further, standing beside the arm chair across from the sofa. “Well, it’s, uh,” he paused. “I, uh- it’s not going that well. I’m off tomorrow on a red-eye flight to Paris.” 

Greg’s face fell and Mycroft had a strange urge to try to get him to smile again. “Oh, when did you get here?” 

Mycroft smirked, glancing at the clock on the wall behind Greg. “Uh— about twelve hours ago?” 

“We made a great impression on you, haven’t we?” Greg said with a laugh, leaning back in the couch. 

“No, I—” Mycroft paused, keeping his eyes from wandering from Greg’s face as he took off his leather jacket and put it on the sofa next to him. His shirt was tight around his arms and shoulders, exposing more detail to his frame. Mycroft cleared his throat. “Would you like something to drink? Tea? Water? Wine, maybe?”

Greg’s sideways grin was back as he leaned all the way forward and pointed at the glass cabinet to the left of the television. “Think there is a bottle of scotch over there. Would you like a glass?” 

Mycroft smiled at the role-reversal of who was playing host and nodded once, going to fetch the bottle and glasses. 

“So, _Mycroft_ ,” Greg said, over-enunciating as if testing out his name on his lips. “You’re not married are you?” 

Mycroft smiled, turning back from the cabinet. “Why, do I look not married?”

Greg’s eyes widened and he shook his head, turning his gaze to his lap. “No! No, I— that was just a way of asking— Are you married?” 

Mycroft’s cheeks hurt he was smiling so big. The man got flustered easily. He placed the glasses and bottle on the coffee table in front of Greg. “Not married, no.” 

Greg nodded thoughtfully, taking the bottle from him to pour them both a glass. “Me either,” he said, handing the glass to Mycroft, who graciously took it and sat down next to him. They clinked glasses and each took a sip. As they pulled back from their glasses, they shared an awkward smile and Greg winced. 

“Do you mind if I stay?” he asked. “I’ll be gone before you wake up, I promise.”

“No, it’s fine,” Mycroft said, getting up from the couch. “Let me just get you a blanket and a pillow.” But he didn’t know where the hell that would be. 

“Thank you,” Greg replied with a warm grateful smile, glancing toward open doorway. “Uh, they’re in the cabinet in the front hall.” 

Mycroft nodded a thanks and headed there. Greg stood up to follow, standing in the doorway as Mycroft fished out the linens and cushion. 

“Why is it you’re out here anyway?” Greg said and then laughed at his own question. “I mean, handsome guy like you without family or friends out here for the holidays? Always crave a Christmas in New York like the movies or something?”

Mycroft blushed, turning back to Greg and handing him the pile of bedding. “It’s complicated,” he began slowly. “Basically had a mishap at work and needed some time off, time away, but this turned out to be too far for comfort I suppose. Lonely, if I’m honest.” He paused, eyes meeting Greg’s as he searched for understanding. “I know that’s a bit vague.”

“Mysterious,” Greg replied with a smirk and a wink. “You’re an interesting man, Mycroft.” Their eyes stayed focused on one another for a beat too long, their bodies gravitating together like magnets. 

“Yes, well,” Mycroft was the first to step back, blink and clear his throat. “Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” Greg replied, stepping forward to capture Mycroft’s lips with his own. It was so casual, so smooth, so like second nature that Mycroft was frozen, unable to move forward to reciprocate or away from him to end it. It was chaste and quick, a peck really, but Mycroft was stunned. 

Greg and Mycroft both inhaled loudly as they broke apart, Greg’s eyes frantically flitting across the other man’s face, attempting to assess the situation, but Mycroft spoke up. 

“Would you mind trying that again?” he murmured, just barely above a whisper. Greg reflexively licked his lips and nodded once. Mycroft tentatively closed his eyes, body rigid and taut like a violin string. Greg stepped forward and tried again, another chaste kiss on the lips, not daring to go further if Mycroft was still unsure.

And he was. As they pulled apart, Mycroft’s brow furrowed. He had kissed dozens of men and felt nothing. It was really all about transport. Sentiment was never something that he was interested in and at this point in his life he didn’t even need to actively try to subdue the emotional connections he was programmed to want to share. 

But then this stranger comes along and even though each kiss lasted about a second, his entire body ignited. There was an electrical spark at his lips and it carried a thrilling tingling sensation to the pads of his fingertips all to way to his toes. His entire body caught alight and as soon as it started, the sensation dissipated, still a lingering flame radiating in the pit of his stomach. 

The silence concerned Greg and he leaned further back. “Bad?” he asked. 

“Curious,” Mycroft replied, mind glossing over in a fuzzy haze. His logic was thwarted by this random stranger and it was infuriating, but he couldn’t stay mad as his body took over. “Perhaps if I—” Mycroft leaned forward and captured Greg’s lips with his own, keeping his hands at his sides. As they broke apart, Mycroft hummed. 

“Sure it’s not bad?” Greg asked with a nervous chuckle. 

“Once more,” Mycroft replied. Greg laughed darkly at the demand, dropping the pile of linens and cupping both hands around his face and drawing him in for a kiss. This one was like lava, Mycroft was drowning in the chemicals of it. It was intoxicating, engulfing him with warmth and the flicker of anticipation. Greg pulled away too soon. 

“Good?” he asked with a knowing smile, pulling his hands back to his sides and Mycroft stumbled forward and Greg’s smile got a hell of a lot bigger.

“I think—” Mycroft blinked, trying to focus on clearing his head. “I think you should take me to bed. That is, if you wouldn’t be opposed.”

Greg’s eyes widened for a second, narrowing in skepticism. “Was that a trick question?” 

Mycroft shook his head and Greg leaned forward to capture his lips again, but Mycroft pressed a finger to his lips and grabbed his hand with the other, tugging him toward the back of the house toward the bedroom. 

Greg smiled, following him right behind, “you are becoming one of the most interesting men I have ever met.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There wasn't enough Johnlock in this. Next time!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm super stoked to keep writing. Tell me what you think and follow me on twitter @lilbabynorbury for updates + sneak peeks!


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